


The Power That’s Inside (We All Live in a Pokémon World)

by Brightknightie



Category: Highlander: The Series, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pokemon GO
Genre: Characters Playing Pokemon GO, Crack Taken Seriously, Gen, Pokemon Are Real, life in 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28040022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightknightie/pseuds/Brightknightie
Summary: Duncan knew that Methos had a hustle as a Pokémon GO influencer on social media. But there was so much more he didn’t know. And every game needs a champion.
Comments: 27
Kudos: 20
Collections: Highlander Holiday ShortCuts 2020





	1. Win a Legendary Raid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jtt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jtt/gifts).



> Caution: Set in 2020.

_Seacouver, 2020_

“Just in time!” Methos opened Joe’s door to Duncan. “Where’s your phone?”

Duncan stepped into the condo and out of the drizzly autumn evening. He wore a black cloth face mask. His hands were full of groceries in reusable bags, now that stores were allowing outside bags again; it was too much to hope that Methos planned to share the load. Duncan sighed. “Right jacket pocket.”

“Got it.” Methos helped himself to Duncan’s phone and set it on the open-plan kitchen’s counter, side by side with his own. “Password?”

“Same as last time.” Duncan set down the bags.

“Want a hand with those, Mac?” Joe asked from his recliner. They both knew the answer; they had been doing this every week since the first shelter-at-home order last spring. The ritual of the offer was what mattered.

“No need.” Duncan closed the door, removed his mask, and washed his hands. “I left Methos’s beer in the trunk with the toilet paper.”

“Barbarian,” Methos muttered. “When was the last time you accepted an update for the app?”

“I don’t know.” Duncan started putting the groceries away. “Maybe when you had me throw balls at that white monster with the turbine tail? Or the off-balance one with the jagged wings?”

Methos let out a long-suffering sigh.

Joe snorted. “That’s going onto his YouTube channel and podcast, you know, Mac.”

“At least he gave up Twitch.”

“Twitch is even less tolerant of voice-overs than YouTube. Twitch users insist on seeing your face, and I’m _not_ — okay, the raid is starting!” Methos announced. “I’m sending remote invitations. Joe, don’t forget your mega. The bonus depends on speed.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Joe tapped his own phone with confidence.

Duncan finished stowing the groceries. He folded the empty bags and looked across Joe’s home with fond amusement. Two of the people closest to him in this world — both grown men, each with his own profound tragedies and triumphs — were glued to a mobile game about imaginary pocket monsters. 

The game had come out the year that Joe had sold the bar. Duncan had flown in then for Joe’s semi-retirement party — the Watchers were for life and music was forever — and had gotten a swift kick in how fast the years were flying. He’d canceled his return ticket. Gingerly, Duncan had settled into the final chapter of the life he’d started with Tessa; he hoped to stay in Seacouver as long as Joe lived, and then bury this incarnation next to her and Richie in Paris. Soon Methos had arrived, too. But not quietly, not discreetly — no, this time, at the height of the game’s hype, he had come waving a transparent new identity lovingly crafted to convince Watchers and immortals alike that researcher Adam Pierson really had been a clueless pre-immortal who had lucked into Duncan as a teacher via Joe. Pierce Adamson, PokéTuber. Joe had rolled his eyes and refused to be baited.

Beyond them both now, across Joe’s living room, Duncan saw the TV screen paused on a console game from the same franchise. Methos had bought the gear for himself — business write-off — but had immediately set it up at Joe’s. For a second, Duncan thought some stuffed toys from the games even sat on the couch, but he blinked and saw just an afghan and shadows. He shook his head and smiled. In this year of virus, fires, injustice, protests, isolation, and so much else, this slightly absurd tableau had brightened even his darkest weeks. 

“Room for improvement,” Methos sighed. “Joe, how’s yours? Want to trade?”

“I’m still catching. Besides, some of us are on a stardust budget, old man. We don’t all get to play our days away.”

“Hey, I spend a lot more hours writing scripts and editing recordings than I do playing the game. Not to mention working with my illustrator, merch supplier, and sponsors.” Methos handed Duncan’s phone back to him and went to look over Joe’s shoulder. “But you spend your encore career your way.”

“Encore, hah!” Joe moved his finger on his phone’s screen in a pattern Duncan recognized as a curveball. “I’m pushing a brand-new boulder up a fresh mountain of steaming garbage with this zero-tolerance Hunter-prevention project. And I have the email inbox to prove it.” 

“You got them to pass the reporting protocols.” Duncan went to the couch and sat down, moving a game controller out of his way. “You may have already saved lives, Joe. You deserve a victory lap — and a vacation.”

Joe snorted. “Where could I vacation this year, anyway? Besides, reporting is too late. We’ve gotta keep it from happening in the first place. Better psych screening. More philosophy formation. Apprenticeships. And for crying out loud, no more recruiting random witnesses.”

“Like you?” Methos asked.

“Or you.” Joe bared his teeth. “Hah! Caught it. Four stars! Read ‘em and weep.”

“Nice! Legendary hundo,” Methos said. “Hey, have you been out to a pokéstop yet today to keep up your streak? I see that Team GO Rocket has invaded one at your neighborhood park. I could take your phone with me, spin and battle for both of us, pick up take-out...”

“Nice try.” Joe set down his phone. “It’s grocery night, so I’m cooking. And you’re eating.”

“But, Team GO Rocket!” Methos made his eyes go wide. “Strange eggs! There’s still good clickbait in that.”

“Mac, why don’t you go with him? You can keep him from walking into a telephone pole or someone’s sword while he’s got his nose in his phone. I’ll have dinner on the table by the time you two get back.”

“Sure, Joe.” Duncan stood, pulled his mask from his pocket, and put it on. Of course he couldn’t die of this plague, but that didn’t necessarily mean he couldn’t carry it to those who could. Not to mention solidarity and blending in. “Come on, Methos. It’s been a long day since my run this morning. I could do with a walk.”

“Is it raining?” Methos put on his coat, and then a mask screen-printed with the logo and Twitter handle of his YouTube channel. In glow-in-the-dark gold ink.

No one was going to see past this tree to the forest behind it, Duncan admitted, but Methos’s current identity still baffled him. He wasn’t surprised that people were paying Methos to teach them how to play a game: memories cascaded of chess with Darius, golf with Fitz, roulette with Amanda, and so many more. But this hiding in plain sight seemed the opposite of the low profile Methos had long preferred. Or was this a twist on what Methos had done in the Watchers? Somehow, the question had not felt right to ask. Duncan had become aware of more things unsaid between them in this odd year of social limits. “I’ll carry the umbrella so that your phone screen won’t get wet.”

“Brilliant. I knew you’d turn out to be good for something, MacLeod.”


	2. Defeat a Team GO Rocket Grunt

A white LED streetlamp in front of every second building lit Joe’s neighborhood. As Duncan and Methos strolled down the sidewalk toward the park, Duncan admired the light-pollution shields around the bulbs, while Methos made use of the illumination to check his screen-recording app and count open egg spaces in the game.

Finally, Methos paired the bluetooth accessory that would let him keep playing mostly automatically, and put his phone in his pocket. “So how was the food pantry today?”

“Worse,” Duncan said. “Logistics are an even bigger challenge than money.” By the time Duncan had arrived at dawn for a volunteer shift with Second Harvest of Seacouver, the line of cars had already stretched around the block. Folks out of work, with too little work, or who had depended on school meals for their kids. Many on the edge had been pushed over. Many who’d felt safe were on the edge. “We ran short on staples when a scheduled delivery didn’t turn up.”

“Didn’t you say that the non-profits had been able to reestablish supply chains over the summer, after everything broke in March?”

“I’d thought they had. But the need is growing. And now there’s a new, wider mess with orders and shipping.” 

After the missed delivery, Duncan had dropped in at the non-profit’s head office. He’d exchanged familiar greetings with staff in masks, at distance; the charity couldn't set up everyone to work from home. Duncan had headed straight to the desk of the director, an old friend, Angela Burke. On his return to Seacouver, Angie had pulled him in first as a donor, then as a volunteer. He’d known her tenacity ever since that tragic Paris motorcycle race, when she’d reached out and then simply refused to lose touch. But as she’d answered his questions today, Duncan had seen how these setbacks were wearing down even Angie.

To Methos, Duncan said, “It turns out that this wasn’t the first order gone wrong this way. And we weren’t the first non-profit affected. Have you ever heard of the Silph Corporation?”

Methos stopped short. “‘Ever’ is a big word. What have you heard?”

“Not much.” Duncan looked closely at Methos, who glanced away into lit windows and resumed walking. Duncan had never heard of the company until Angie mentioned it. He hadn’t expected it to ring a bell with Methos, who had seemed to fall even further down the rabbit-hole of his game since the shelter-at-home orders began. “Apparently, this Silph Co. has been buying up a lot of contracts, and then leaning on the remaining vendors.”

“Huh. I would have thought food might be one thing they didn’t dabble in.”

“Actually, they’re squeezing the transportation side. It wasn’t noticed at first. But from Angie’s description, it’s starting to feel like a shakedown.” Duncan stuck his hand out from under the umbrella. No more rain. He collapsed the umbrella and waited.

Methos put his hands in his pockets. He seemed to watch his shoes on the sidewalk as they approached the intersection. Then he raised his head and stared out at the next oncoming headlights, blocks away. “About four years ago, I started seeing their brand on stuff. Just another tech company. No big deal.”

“What do they make?”

“Balls. Starpieces. Most TMs.”

Duncan’s brow furrowed. Then he remembered: those were items in the mobile game. He laughed. “No, seriously.”

“Would I lie to you?” Methos pressed the button for the pedestrian signal. They crossed to the park. Unlike the shielded neighborhood lamps, the floodlights over the tennis court on the far side created an imitation day for a good space around, and more targeted decorative lamps illuminated the fountain nearby.

“So they make toys based on the game? Like your bluetooth gadget?”

Methos sighed. “All I’m saying is, about a year ago, something changed. Silph Co. went from squeaky clean to surrounded by some really obvious corruption. Their assets and tech kept turning up in the vicinity of threats, theft, vandalism. There was some corporate espionage and DDOS attacks. It all went quiet at the start of the pandemic. But the past few months— well, they figured out how to operate in the circumstances.” Methos sat on a park bench by the fountain and got out his phone.

Duncan strolled the park path and chewed over what he’d learned from Angie. When institutions worked as they should, raising bad actors to general attention often took care of them. But with corruption in the mix, nothing worked right, and voices like Angie’s organization — and the people they helped — weren’t heard.

Very few people were out in the dark and damp, on top of local stay-at-home guidance, Duncan noted. He saw someone walking a dog, someone else hurrying home from a bus stop, and someone on the other side of the fountain, at the edge of the light, also on her phone like Methos. Another hard-core player? Her pink hair and unseasonably short skirt made her stand out; her sweater featured a red ‘R’ that didn’t match any schools or sports teams Duncan could think of, and, unlike the others, she didn’t wear a mask.

Back by Methos, Duncan asked, “So how do you know so much about this Silph Co.?”

“Would you believe I’m just easily amused?” Methos made a gesture on his phone’s screen and smiled. “Rocket Grunts never use shields! It’s like their organization has no onboarding program at all. Just hand them a uniform and some shadow pokémon, and send them out. No wonder they’re regularly defeated by ten-year-olds.”

Across the fountain, the pink-haired woman stomped her foot and looked daggers at Methos. She strode away in a huff, muttering about “the Boss.”

Methos jumped up and walked straight to where she’d been. He squatted down, pocketed something, stood, and tapped his phone again.

“What’s that?” Duncan asked.

Methos looked surprised. “You saw that? The Mysterious Component?”

“You picked up something that woman dropped.”

Methos returned to Duncan. Above his mask, his gaze looked detached, clinical. It was how he looked while he tried not to hope. Duncan had seen that expression too much this year. Methos held out his hand.

Duncan clasped it.

“Do you see anything now?” Methos asked.

Duncan wished he knew what Methos meant. “Like what?”

“Guess not.” Methos sighed and let go. “Come on. Joe will have the steaks on the table. Let’s rescue my beer from your trunk.” Methos headed back the way they’d come. 

Duncan followed. He knew something was wrong. But if Methos were going to keep pulling his leg about the game rather than talk about what was really bothering him, Duncan could only think that this distance between them was the way Methos wanted it. Duncan wasn’t going to push, not this year. Those who were getting by were only just getting by. Waiting. Worrying. Even with everything anyone could ask for and immortality besides… well, travel restrictions had trapped Amanda in Prague. The fires had looked and smelled like Hell. Society clung to its sins in ways Carl had always understood and Duncan had to admit he hadn’t. And a rare strain of loneliness crept up from every masked smile and missed handshake.

Methos must know what he was doing for his own psychological health, Duncan told himself. A few months ago, Methos had joked that his YouTube channel was his _Decameron_ in this plague, with the game his quarantine villa outside Florence.

But Methos had arrived in Seacouver already playing the game four years ago. He’d changed trajectories before the world did.

Duncan wondered what he’d missed.


	3. Register a Pokémon to your Pokédex

“Do you think you have enough grey in your hair?” Methos peered out past his apartment’s door chain into the hallway.

“I touched it up this morning.” Duncan blinked. His hair hadn’t been one of the topics on his mind as he’d climbed five flights to Methos’s undersized loft in a converted factory this afternoon. Shelter-at-home hair was supposed to be forgivable, anyway. Duncan had let Joe take scissors to it back in July; it had almost grown out. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing! Just, some of my neighbors have socially-distanced opinions on who’s in my pandemic pod. I’m young enough to have played GameBoy when Pokémon Red first hit North America. But who are you? My much older brother? My business manager? The reason I won’t accept a Zoom date with the grandson of the lady who lives next to the laundry room?”

“Are you going to let me come in and sit down? Your elevator is broken again.”

Methos unhooked the chain and wandered back toward his desk, which dominated the space. Two doors spanned three sawhorses; each bowed slightly under the weight of monitors bigger than Duncan’s television. Between them perched what Methos had assured Duncan was a studio-quality microphone, with an empty clamp for the camera that Methos never pointed at himself, although, as he repeatedly claimed, his choice to stay prudently voiceover-only cost him hundreds of thousands of YouTube subs. Plastic totes of tech, papers, books, and branded merchandise towered between the windows. Methos sat in his ergonomic gaming chair and spun around to face the room. “Granted, that elevator was a nightmare back when Joe could visit, but the delay gives pretty handy advance warning of certain surprise visitors.”

“I texted.” Duncan closed and locked the door behind them. 

“Present company excepted.”

Duncan took off his mask and coat. He leaned against the overstuffed couch that defined a living room space at the center of the sprawling desk, queen-size bed, and full kitchen. Soothing electronica seeped out of a tiny bluetooth speaker. “Speaking of surprises, I spoke with Anne and Mary Lindsey this morning. Video chat.”

“How are they?”

“Mary’s staying in her off-campus apartment back east instead of traveling home for the holidays. She’s afraid of infecting her mom, and vice versa. Anne is exhausted. She tries to hide it...” You couldn’t share a meaningful look across a video call, but Duncan was pretty sure his god-daughter had tried to stare him into joining an intervention for her overcommitted M.D. mother. He expected a text.

“I’m sorry. Not a surprise, though, is it?”

“I asked Anne if there was anything I could do to help.” Duncan had known Anne would understand what he meant: besides his own two hands and bank account, he had a deep bench of contacts. Someone would know someone. “She told me about this corporation that’s started disrupting every supply chain in the region, including her hospital’s. Guess which.”

Methos turned his chair toward his monitors and checked something on his screen. “This video is taking forever to upload.”

“Methos,” Duncan kept his tone even, “did you know Cosimo is Silph Co.’s chief operating officer?”

“Cosimo who? deMedici? Cavallaro? Commisso?”

Duncan crossed his arms.

Methos turned his chair back around. “Cosimo, the immortal who took over Grayson’s cartel? Who thinks that he was to Grayson what Grayson thought he was to Darius? Who collaborated with Horton like St. Cloud, but survived them both? Yeah. I knew.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t tell Joe, either.”

“Methos—”

“Organized crime is organized crime, Mac!” Methos stood and headed for his refrigerator. “What difference does it make that this mob lieutenant is an immortal?”

“It makes a difference that he’s _this_ immortal!” Duncan stood.

Methos got out a bottle of beer. “I thought you stopped freelancing as judge, jury, and executioner.”

Duncan flinched. Bristled. Took a deep breath. Then he reached for gratitude for the reminder. Some old habits died very, very hard.

“Yes, he’s a bad man, danger to the community, etcetera,” Methos rooted through a drawer, “but there are ways to deal with this besides you risking your head or Joe assigning some rookie to start poking around.” Methos checked a bowl on the counter, frowned, and patted his pockets.

“Wait, Cosimo doesn’t have a Watcher?”

“The Watchers think he lost his head fifty years ago.” Evidently unable to find an opener, Methos held the neck of the beer bottle with one hand and put the bottle cap’s edge on top of the counter. “I think he got Horton’s successors to scrub him out of recent records in exchange for—” Methos slammed his other hand down on the bottle. The lid popped off and clattered to the floor. But he must have gotten the angle wrong, despite decades of practice, because he grunted and lifted up a cut across the heel of his hand.

Duncan saw the small blood trail. He thought he could sense the quickening energy zipping across the gap like electricity. He also saw a black, white, and yellowish — cat? rabbit? squirrel? — jump up onto the counter and scamper to inspect the injury. Surprised, Duncan asked, “When did you get a pet?”

Methos and the — flying squirrel? — both stared at Duncan. “You can see her?”

“Eeee-mol-ga?” the creature purred. And then disappeared.

“Pandemic puppy?” Duncan grinned. “Did I ever tell you about Darius’s cats?” Duncan stood and crossed to look around the counter. For centuries, Duncan himself had rarely even named his horses, though he liked to think he’d always taken good care of them. On reflection, Methos was absolutely the type to let an animal adopt him. Someone who claimed almost seventy marriages could certainly commit to a … whatever this was. But the creature wasn’t there. Duncan looked down both sides of the counter and up at the cabinets. “Where’d she go?”

“You could see her this time?” Methos demanded. “About a foot high, eleven pounds, unbearably cute? I’ve been trying for four years to get you—” He looked at his now-healed hand. “Oh. Oh! It’s the quickening energy. Infinity energy! Why didn’t I think of that before? Emolga, use — what’s harmless? — use Helping Hand on MacLeod.” Methos paused. “Yes, he is an ally. Yes, an _adjacent_ ally. Use Helping Hand, Emolga; there’s a good girl.”

Duncan felt a small trickle of quickening energy, more gentle even than his own body repairing itself. It rose up from his feet. When he looked down, there she was.

A black, white, and yellow flying squirrel stood on her hind feet with her forepaws on his calves. When he met her huge, black eyes, she made a _moue_ and batted her lashes.

“Methos, is your, uh— is she flirting with me?”

Methos rolled his eyes. “Emolga, please stop using Attract on my friends. It doesn’t actually work on humans. Not even immortals.”

“Eeee-mo,” she pouted. The squirrel walked away from Duncan, jumped up onto the counter, and from there to Methos’s shoulder. She narrowed her eyes at Duncan and raised her nose in the air.

Methos skritched her ears. “Mac, meet Emolga, my buddy pokémon. Emolga, you already know MacLeod.”

Duncan returned to the couch and sat down. Heavily. He thought he felt clear-headed and awake; but he saw a pokémon on Methos’s shoulder, so evidently not. Duncan pinched himself. The pokémon didn’t disappear. He wondered if 2020 had finally been too much for him. “I’m fairly sure I haven’t run into any enchanted springs or primordial demons lately.”

“It helps if you think of them more as magical creatures and less as intellectual property.” Methos got a plastic clamshell of berries out of his fridge. With the berries in one hand, his beer in the other, and Emolga on his shoulder, he joined Duncan on the couch. Emolga dove for the berries. Methos raised them above her reach and doled them out one at a time. “Fair warning, my Emolga is a manipulative mooch. Adorable, though.”

Duncan felt the corners of his eyes crinkle. “So not like anyone we know, then.”

“Ha!” Methos smirked. “If you want to talk about trainers who resemble their partner pokémon, wait until you meet Amanda’s Purrloin. And what Meloetta sees in Joe is so true that it can break your heart when they perform together.”

“Amanda has a—? Joe?” Duncan’s head spun. The world had felt vaguely unreal far too often lately. Now it felt manifestly unreal. He took a deep breath.

This Emolga was some sort of mammal: nothing magical about that. And while she was intelligent, so were dolphins, elephants, and any number of primates. But if the — creatures — were real, so was what Silph Co. manufactured, and some cut of the millions — billions? — of dollars pouring into the game must be going not to a tech company in San Francisco, or the franchise owners in Tokyo, but to a third-rate Grayson-wannabe so grubby in his profiteering that he impeded food banks and hospitals. It all started to make sense.

Until Duncan remembered the quickening energy Emolga had channeled.


	4. Equip a Super Rocket Radar

“Here,” Methos handed Duncan the berries. “You feed her.”

“Molgaaa!” Emolga objected. She gave Methos a hard look. Then she ran across the back of the couch to bat her eyelashes at Duncan again.

Methos went to his computer.

Duncan offered Emolga a berry. She gobbled it down. He offered another. She sat on his leg and started helping herself. Her short fur looked velvety. Her round ears looked like a big bow on her head. The yellow patches on her cheeks bulged as she stuffed in berries. She was warm against him, and smelled a little musty but a little sweet.

She was real.

Duncan raised his eyes from Emolga to Methos, working at his desk. Duncan watched, listened to the playlist from the tiny speaker, and thought. Later, he might puzzle that Methos, Joe, and Amanda — even Amanda? — had known before him. Now, he wondered how it had been for Methos, knowing, Duncan suspected, first. Knowing alone. What had Methos said, that he’d been trying for four years? This wasn’t a secret by choice. Duncan asked, “Is this why we’ve had such a hard time connecting, these past few years? You’ve been living in a world I literally couldn’t see.”

Methos froze. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Still facing his computer, he said, “I expected you to ask about the quickening energy.”

Duncan opened his hand. “That, too.”

Methos spun his chair around to face the couch and assumed his professor/podcaster voice. “Earth has no native pokémon. But they’ve been migrating here for generations through a naturally occurring ultra-wormhole.” Duncan started to ask; Methos held up a hand. “We can come back to the ultra-wormhole. About four years ago, some human explorers came through, too, tracking a pokémon migration. Scientists. They brought the technology that helps us learn to see what’s all around us.”

“The game?”

“A Silph Scope Mark XVIII plus pokédex—” Methos sighed. “Yeah, the game, basically. But most Earth people can’t see, even so. I couldn’t figure out why.” Methos looked at his hand, the cut long since healed. “Where these scientist-explorers come from, they call it infinity energy, but it’s quickening energy. All the moves pokémon can make, all their power, it’s … like what a human immortal body does, except they can consciously control, conserve, and channel it.”

“But they’re not immortal?”

“Not that I’ve seen,” Methos said. “Their cultures have legends, but pokémon die in all the ordinary ways. It’s like their world just has this overabundance of the energy compared to ours, or spreads it out instead of concentrating it, or — I don’t know yet. They had a war in which one side built a weapon that harnessed quickening — infinity — energy. Unthinkable devastation. It turned their culture away from weapons and toward pokémon.” Methos looked distant. “Yet today they have these crystals that resonate like the shards of Rebecca’s stone. They call them mega-stones, wear them in bracelets, and use them to mega-evolve their pokémon— but of course the use of the word ‘evolution’ is totally wrong in every way. It’s an individual metamorphosis...” Methos went on and on. 

Duncan tried to listen. While Methos loved knowledge for its own sake, he was ever the pragmatist; he must be making a point. Duncan couldn’t process it. He supposed he might be in some kind of shock. Other worlds, wormholes, and magical creatures with quickening energy? He pinched himself again, just in case.

Eventually, Duncan realized that the berries were gone and so was Emolga. He waved the empty plastic clamshell at Methos and raised his eyebrows.

“Shelter-at-home means nothing to a buddy pokémon. If I’m lucky, she’ll bring resources from the nearest pokéstop. Otherwise, she’s probably at Joe’s. He lets her eat poffins.” Nevertheless, Methos walked over to his windows and looked down at the street below.

Duncan joined him and blinked. Suddenly, the city had many more animals in it. No: magical creatures. Pokémon. Some of the birds were not birds. Some of the dogs were not dogs. A big blue and white panda lay down in the middle of a sidewalk; people walked around it and yet seemed to have no awareness that it was there.

But Duncan did. Now. For a second, he wondered whether this added dimension could help solve any problems of the world he knew, the world of Joe, Angie, Anne, and the people they served. But that was backwards. The pokémon had been here all along; he was the one who was seeing anew.

Methos breathed in sharply.

Instead of tensing up, Duncan immediately loosened his muscles and stance to be ready to move in any direction. He followed Methos’s gaze to a black cargo van pulling up across the street. A large red ‘R’ was its only identifying mark.

The driver stepped out. He looked up straight at Methos’s windows, smirked, and opened the back of the van.

At this distance, no immortal could sense another. But Duncan recognized the man. “Cosimo.”

“Emolga!” Methos recognized the pokémon the man now pulled out of the van in a wire cage, hissing angrily. “Use Volt Switch! Oh, crap, she can’t hear me. What a time for her to _not_ use it on her own.”

Cosimo pushed the cage back into the van. He pulled out his phone and held it to his ear.

Duncan’s phone buzzed.

“Yours?” Methos asked.

Duncan was just as surprised. He reached over to where he’d left his coat and pulled his phone out of a pocket. “MacLeod,” he answered.

“Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, I trust.” Cosimo sounded pleased with himself. “I have your pokémon. I have your Watcher. Now, I want you.”

Duncan remembered that Methos had connected Cosimo to Horton’s successors, the targets of Joe’s Hunter-prevention work. “I want proof.”

“Of course! Of course, of course.” Cosimo pulled his phone away from his ear and gestured on the screen. Then he glanced back up at Methos’s window. “You have to look. No, not at me. At your phone.” 

Duncan lowered his hand and looked at his screen. Methos stood beside him.

Cosimo was streaming video from his camera. First of himself, with a little ‘R’ pin on his suit lapel under his tan leather trench-coat. Then he turned the phone around. To show Joe in the van. Gagged. Hands tied. Furious. Cosimo moved the camera down, as if to show off Joe’s cane like a twisted trophy, useless on the floor under the bench seat. But then the lens focused on the real trophy: another pokemon, this time a fairy-like creature with long, green hair. Caged like Emolga, gagged like Joe. What had Methos called it— Meloetta?

“Where?” Duncan grated.

“Excellent! The Boss will be pleased. He needs to see our kind of challenge, you understand, MacLeod, to appreciate what this world really offers. What I offer him, that is. The best of both worlds. Power like even he has never dreamed of.” The camera came back to Cosimo’s skewed grin. “Of course there’s only one place to find us.”

“Where?” The word cut the air.

“Why, the corner office, naturally.”


	5. Defeat the Team GO Rocket Boss

“Looks like we could have just used Google Maps.” Methos stared up at the skyscraper that held the Seacouver offices of Silph Co.

Duncan reached for the revolving door. “You’re the one who insisted on following your game radar thing.”

“All I’m saying is, don’t trust people who kidnap your friends and then livestream an invitation for you to come rescue them. And don’t assume that Cosimo is no danger just because he’s no Grayson. I’ve told you, you should be more paranoid.”

“I’m just the right amount of paranoid.”

“If you say so.”

“You don’t have to come.”

“I kind of do.”

They’d argued all the way downtown. Methos had pointed out that Duncan didn’t know enough about people from the other side of the ultra-wormhole to negotiate with them. Duncan had countered that he knew more than enough to deal with Cosimo. That stopped at the door. Like the street outside, the lobby was not quite empty. People kept their distance and, even with masks, it was clear that no one wanted to share an enclosed space. As previously agreed, Duncan and Methos split up, one taking a stairwell and the other an elevator.

The third immortal presence came on cue as they reunited and approached Silph Co.’s executive suite. The floor felt abandoned, but furniture remained in place, and the potted plants looked healthy. Duncan got out his katana. Methos put his hands in his coat pockets.

At the end of a hallway, the doors of a huge office stood open. Across a wide expanse, Cosimo waited in front of a heavy wooden desk. Behind that desk sat a man in a dark suit, with dark hair, slicked back from a distinct widow’s peak. Joe sat in a chair to one side, neither tied nor gagged. On the other side, though, Emolga and Meloetta remained caged.

What looked to Duncan like a mountain lion with a ghostly purple aura roamed freely.

“Welcome,” said the man behind the desk. “I am the leader of this enterprise: Giovanni. Mr. Dawson here has declined to share more than his name, rank, and serial number. I trust, Mr. MacLeod, that you can supply more convincing confirmation of Cosimo’s … curious assertions.”

“Our fight is private. He and I can take it elsewhere.” Ducan kept his eyes on Cosimo, even as he spoke to Cosimo’s boss. “First, Dawson and the pokémon are leaving with my friend.”

Joe looked at Methos. “He knows?”

“Yeah,” Methos said.

“Finally.”

“I am afraid not,” Giovanni stood. “Your pokémon exist for Team GO Rocket’s use. My goal is beyond your comprehension. Cosimo, you have assured me that these fellows of yours can no more turn down a challenge than can a trainer. Demonstrate.”

Cosimo saluted with a side-sword, the infantry weapon of Renaissance Europe.

Duncan returned the gesture with his katana, blade down. He could feel his adrenaline rise. He anticipated the rush from combat, the satisfaction in ending the threats this man posed... the seductive mistake of anger. He held those apart for a few seconds more. As Methos had reminded him, he’d long since stopped accepting the Game as its own excuse. Where there was life, there was hope — and choice. “You can still call this off, Cosimo. Release my friends. Leave Seacouver.”

“Not a chance.”

Duncan righted his katana and assumed a guard. Resignation slid beneath anticipation. “Then remember that our fight is not for spectators. I’ll meet you, alone, wherever you like.”

Cosimo circled, seeking an opening. “The Boss needs to understand what infinity energy means on this side of the wormhole, and why I should be his Rocket Executive for the Earth region. There’s only one good way to show him!” Cosimo lunged.

Duncan turned sideways to dodge the attack, but found his counterattack parried. He had to leap back and parry in turn.

“Giovanni!” Methos called. “I challenge you to a pokémon battle!”

“How dare you?”

“Their contest is for them. You pay attention to ours.”

“Very well. If you insist on disrupting my plans, I will insist on making you regret it. Persian, to me! Let us battle.”

Duncan saw the mountain lion with the purple glow run across the room. But with Cosimo in front of him, Duncan couldn’t spare a thought for what Methos was up to, or follow what Methos and Giovanni were saying and doing. The short sword was a versatile, stab-and-cut weapon, and Cosimo switched styles with an unpredictability that had likely done much to keep the man alive this long.

“Call this off,” Duncan offered one last time, from just out of distance. “No one has to die here today.”

“Oh, to be fair, this isn’t only for the Boss’s benefit,” Cosimo preened. “I will enjoy adding your quickening to my collection.”

The metal-on-metal clangs of successful defenses followed attacks that would have run silently through flesh, had they worked. Duncan kept his attention on the shoulder of Cosimo’s sword arm. With a few more feints, he found a tell. A way to predict. It was enough.

“There can be only one,” Duncan said, somberly, as he took advantage of the opening Cosimo gave him.

At the same time, Methos’s voice rang out: “Emolga, now! Use Thunderbolt!”

“E-mooooo!” She screamed.

Quickening energy — infinity energy — erupted on both sides of the room. Sinking to his knees, Duncan could see both blue and yellow bolts of power whip around the walls and blow out the windows, but he felt only the consequences of Cosimo’s death ... and life. So much waste.

“Fascinating,” Giovanni said. “I shall step aside — this time! But understand that Team GO Rocket is not done with this ‘Earth.’” He put a pokéball in his pocket and strolled toward the door. Passing Cosimo's decapitated corpse, Giovanni barely paused. “Don’t trouble yourselves with clean-up. My people will take care of what remains.”

He disappeared down the hall.

“Mac?” Joe asked. “You okay?”

“I will be.” Duncan wiped his katana on the rug and looked around. The mountain lion was gone. Methos stood as far from Duncan as the room allowed. Joe had gotten to his feet. The cages were open and empty. Duncan saw Meloetta join Joe, then glanced around for Emolga, finally spotting her on Giovanni’s desk.

She had her paws in a bowl. Her cheeks bulged.

“Spit that out!” Methos went to pick her up. “Good grief! Do not eat Team GO Rocket candy. Do you want to end up a shadow like Giovanni’s pokémon?”

“Molga,” she pouted.

Out of the corner of his eye, impossibly, Duncan thought he saw Cosimo’s body move. He reversed his grip on his katana and stood.

What looked like twenty pounds of orange lizard — with the tip of its tail literally on fire — crept out from under the desk and pushed gently at Cosimo’s arm. A sickly purple miasma clung to the lizard pokémon, as it had to Giovanni’s big cat. Its blue eyes looked more confused than sad, but sadness was there, too. And fear.

Duncan put his sword away. Of course, even Cosimo would have left someone behind. “What happens to a pokémon when its trainer dies?”

“Their pokéballs open,” Methos said, “returning them to the wild. I’m not sure why this Charmander is sticking around, given what Team GO Rocket did to it. That purple shadow is from some seriously toxic drugs.”

Duncan squatted down next to the Charmander, who hissed and spread his forepaws as if to defend the body. His tail flame flared. Duncan’s heart went out to this pokémon, so much more faithful than Cosimo or Team GO Rocket deserved. “Can we do anything for him?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “Yeah, of course! They can recover from the shadow poisons. But first you have to catch them. And they’ll only stay in the ball if they choose you to be their trainer. You can’t force them.”

Methos was silent. Emolga climbed to his shoulder.

On impulse, Duncan offered his hand to Charmander. “Let me help. When you feel better, you can choose whether to stay with me or go where you like.”

Charmander looked Duncan up and down. “Char?”

“Emo! Mo, mo, mo.” Emolga assured him. “Mol-gaaa.”

Meloetta nodded sagely. 

“Mander.” Charmander patted Cosimo’s shoulder. He wiped his eyes. Then he turned around and put both forepaws on Duncan’s outstretched hand.

Duncan felt a tiny frisson of quickening — infinity — energy run up and down his arm. The purple miasma around Charmander seemed to lighten. Duncan felt lighter, himself. Suddenly, Duncan knew that he would always be able to recognize this particular Charmander among any number of others of the species. It felt like a promise kept and renewed. A promise to stand together, back to back, win or lose. Duncan swallowed hard and patted the orange lizard on the shoulder.

“Not to toss a bucket of ice water, but...” Joe raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward the corpse. “We should get out of here. Probably notify the police. And definitely not leave an immortal body for Silph Co. and Team GO Rocket scientists to play with, yeah?”

The men looked at each other. Duncan considered and discarded several ways of dealing with what a decapitation left behind.

Charmander pushed at Duncan’s knees. Duncan stood and stepped back.

Charmander closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Let it out. And out. And out. Infinity — quickening — energy incinerated the mortal remains of his immortal trainer.

Where the rug caught fire, Duncan stomped out the flames.

“Problem solved,” Methos said. “Time to go.”

They headed for the elevators.

Duncan kept looking back to see Charmander at his heels. As often as Duncan had taken people under his wing, he’d rarely thought about animals, which came and went so quickly. To his surprise, he felt buoyed, not burdened. A pokémon wasn’t quite an animal, was it? Magical creatures, Methos had said. Bright magic of friendship and new journeys out of this dark, lonely, stalled year. Removing Cosimo’s malicious incompetence wouldn’t immediately untangle the mess of Angie and Anne’s supply lines, or expose the remaining Hunter sympathizers to Joe, but it cut a knot. Repairs could start.

Duncan expected quite a conversation over dinner at Joe’s on the next grocery night.

Methos muttered something about each region having only one champion. Emolga giggled.

Duncan looked at them.

“I didn’t know that anyone could catch a pokémon without a ball. Figures it’s you.” Methos sounded amused. Then he nodded toward Charmander. “Mac, meet your partner pokémon. You’ll never have enough stardust ever again.”

  


**— end —**

  


**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer.** This is fanfiction of Davis/Panzer’s _Highlander_ ; Niantic’s _Pokémon GO_ ; and _Pokémon_ overall, which belongs to The Pokémon Company (GameFreak, Nintendo, Creatures). Please don’t mistake it for anything else.
> 
> **Inspiration.** For HLH_Shortcuts 2020, JTT requested “crack taken seriously” and/or the “reality of being immortal,” and allowed “most stuff” for crossovers. When Methos and Emolga collided in my imagination, I suddenly knew Methos would be on Team Instinct (Yellow) and have a legendary in a master ball (only champions and villains have master balls).
> 
> **Pokémon sources.** I hit Level 40 in Pokémon GO in March 2018. In 2020, the cartoon unexpectedly became my safe space when I was tired and sad, especially the “Black & White” seasons (Unova, Gen V), which introduced almost all the pokémon mentioned here (except Charmander and Persian). I’m mixing and matching canon, with huge reliance on [Bulbapedia](https://bulbapedia.bulbagarden.net/wiki/), the fantastic Pokémon wiki. The title is lyrics from two iterations of the cartoon’s opening theme.
> 
> **Beta.** Thank you so very much, Leela and Celli! Celli consulted on the nature of “crack” and also shared cheerleading and proofreading. Leela pointed out confusing passages and missing emotions. This particular story wouldn’t exist without Celli’s reassurance, and wouldn’t be as good without Leela’s guidance. Thank you, both!
> 
> **Thank you for reading!** Let me know what you think?


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